St. Patrick’s Day, celebrated on March 17, is the anniversary of the death of the patron saint of Ireland. Kidnapped as a teen, Saint Patrick was brought to Ireland but eventually escaped to his native Britain. He later returned to Ireland and is credited with bringing Christianity to the Irish. He died in the fifth century. But on March 17, at least in America, everybody is Irish. Indeed, more than 30 million Americans have predominantly Irish roots. Between 1820 and 1930, 4.5 million Irish arrived in America.

       Waterkeeping has become a regular part of environmental conservation in Chesapeake Country, where 18 riverkeepers protect their local waters from the Atlantic at Assateague to the Shenandoah in the Appalachians, from the James at the mouth of the Bay to the Middle Susquehanna at its source.       In that commitment, we’re in good company. From New York’s Hudson River, where riverkeeping began, the movement has spread across the nation, giving us some 250 waterkeepers.

       Historic Sotterley Plantation, along the Patuxent River in Southern Maryland is the 94-acre site of bountiful colonial revival gardens, music and wine festivals, picturesque weddings, an organic farm, special events and of course, tours of the historic 18th-cen­tury manor house and grounds.

      Love is tricky. The adage goes, you never know where you’ll find it. Maybe it’s out on a dock by the Bay or under the awnings of a local coffee shop. For me, love was where I’d least expected to find it: Tinder.

     It’s a packed house and the crowd is warmed up as the emcee introduces the next comic at D.C.’s celebrated Comedy Improv.      “Please put your hands together for Adam Keys, ladies and gentlemen!” Cheers and applause.      As Keys climbs the stairs below stage left, the audience registers something different about him. Is it his rocking gait? His height? His outfit, maybe?

     Stakes were high and tension palpable New Year’s Day at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory in Laurel, as Sarah Hamilton and her colleagues waited for a long-distance radio transmission confirming either a successful mission or a failure.

Observing long-standing tradition is a good thing. It provides comfort, a feeling of stability in a rapidly changing world. However, tradition followed with unyielding rigidity can blind us to new opportunities and pleasures. In short, it can become synonymous with being in a rut.

When I was 10 years old I asked my parents for a pair of walkie-talkies for Christmas.  My friend Randy and I were planning on protecting the neighborhood by going out on reconnaissance missions, not really knowing what "reconnaissance" meant, but in every war movie we watched whoever went on one had a walkie-talkie.

We lived on a farm with a barnyard full of animals when I was young, but moved to a small subdivision where no farm animals were allowed when I was twelve. Mama often talked about how much she missed the farm and the animals, but sadly accepted that she would not have that life again. On that first Christmas Eve at the new house, our family gathered for our traditional family dinner and gift exchange. Most of the family was in the kitchen when my brother burst through the door, breathless and wild eyed.

On Hubbard Street, situated in the heart of Concord Massachusetts, is an old brick house with black shutters. In this house on Hubbard Street, lived a mouse by the name of Margaret. Margaret lived with her Mother, her father the carpenter, and her younger brother Maxwell. Margaret and Max were so close in age that they quickly became best friends. Margaret and Max spent all of their time together. They would take swimming lessons together at Walden Pond and ice skating in the winter. They loved catching games at Fenway Park.